Departure
by mebh
Summary: Being the one who usually leaves, Mustang finds it hard to say good bye.


**Tidied and re-posted**

* * *

It was unusually cold in East City when the two young soldiers mounted the grand steps of the imposing train station. Either side of them, red-eyed travellers and waiting relatives moved stiffly in their light clothes- insufficient for the sudden cold snap. The steps were fringed with ice. The iron handrails were frosted slightly; impossible to grasp without wincing. Hughes chuckled and lamented the lack of hot coffee. Mustang was quieter than the early morning city behind them.

"Cheer up, Roy," said Hughes, happily. "You'll be back into the swing of things in no time. Routine is a great distraction."

The smaller man said nothing, just pushed his way tiredly up each broad step.

"And besides, before you know it you'll be on a train yourself; back to Central and normality. Back to bars with more than one beer on tap. You can do it."

Mustang stopped and blew on his hands. He shook them out and shoved them back into his jacket pockets. "It could be years, Hughes." He sighed noisily and turned to look at the fog-wreathed streets of East City. He had been here for almost three years now, but the ugly, tight sprawl was still a cold host to him. East City had promised much: experience, growth, the chance to make connections. Instead it shuddered and groaned about him like a badly-oiled machine; shining brightly on the outside but inside rotten with rust and badly chosen parts. He hated East City. He hated it for its values and he hated it because he was quite indelibly stuck. He dropped his head back, groaning. "I don't even know if I can manage the next few months."

From his place a few steps ahead, Hughes eyed his friend with something like concern. Pity perhaps, or even weariness. When it came to the question of 'now' - of patience, of perseverance – the young Lieutenant Colonel could be as difficult as a child. More difficult, if anything.

"You're doing well here, Roy. Grumman seems to be looking after you alright," he supplied. His eyes said more but he wisely withheld. Now wasn't the time. "Come on."

They began walking again, Mustang lagging behind Hughes with impressive lethargy. Only a few others were climbing or descending the steps around them. In a short few hours, East City station would be teeming with loud vendors, excited travellers, enterprising street thieves and commuters bound for another long week away from their families. For now, the terminal remained a desert populated by the criminally early. Even the crows nesting on the dark green girders above looked ready to keel over with frigid exhaustion.

The pair entered the station where, impossibly, it was even colder than outside. Hughes quickly spotted his platform on the far side of the building. The train was already there. It shivered on its gauges, emitting cloud after cloud of billowing steam. The first train West to Central.

Mustang had not been happy with Hughes decision to leave on the earliest train. Like most chronic leave-takers, he found the other kind of 'good bye' terribly difficult; the kind where he remained. Wasn't it his job to ride into the sunset while others watched? Nobody wanted to be the idiot left waving from the platform. Not army wives, not surly hosts. Nobody.

"There's a hole in the wall place on the far side of the station," said Mustang, looking around with red-rimmed and watering eyes. Too much drinking showed itself on his face like a badly weathered mask. "Get some coffee for this bastarding cold."

Hughes nodded slowly. He glanced at his watch, considering the time. "I don't know, Roy. I should probably board. You know how these civvy conductors like to drive out the steamers like it's the Grand-bloody-National. If I miss this train, I'll have one very angry – albeit angelic – woman waiting for me in Central Station."

The other man's face soured. Hughes could see the insult coming from miles away. He was clairvoyant in the many caustic barbs employed by one Roy Mustang.

"Well, that's what they do, isn't it? Wait." He sniffed wetly. "God knows she got enough practice waiting for you during Ishbal."

Tired himself, Hughes was not about to turn the other cheek. "Better she wait in my office, is it? File my expenditures and bring me coffee on the hour? Learn my signature off by heart? Besides, Gracia doesn't have the grip for a pistol, Roy."

Mustang said nothing, only flinched when the engine nearest issued a loud bang and spewed bright white steam into the blue air.

God. Why did Mustang always make it so difficult? Hughes's green eyes narrowed at the pale face of his dearest, most infuriatingly impossible friend.

"Roy," said Hughes, with something like a smile. He got no response and laughed. "Roy," he repeated, punching the silent alchemist on the arm. Dark eyes found him, narrowed, then drifted back to stare solemnly at the steam engines arrayed like pawing horses. Stations were noisy places, but both men stood in a vacuum.

The inspector took off his glasses, wiped them once, and returned them with the clearing of his throat. "I get it. I know. I get it! You're way out East, kissing the asses of self-serving idiots and gaining little ground for it. You've got more medals than your skinny jacket can hold, and you're _still_ being run around the region like a common milkman. You can't get a decent sandwich for love nor money, and not only do you feel lost, you're lonely -"

Wide eyed, Mustang spun to face him. "I'm bloody not!"

A whistle cut the air. The conductor called three minutes until departure.

Hughes tutted and checked his watch. He held the face up to show Mustang the time, but the man's pocket watch was already in his trembling hand. It was just the cold that made him shake so, of course. Mustang blinked wearily and snapped his watch shut.

"Early," said Hughes. "These poxy conductors are no good."

"I'm not lonely," repeated Mustang. He dangled his pocket watch from his thin fingers, as if to say his position didn't allow for silly emotions such as 'loneliness'. Alchemists didn't feel those sorts of things, you see. In fact, loneliness was their badge of honour. "And I'm not lost. My destination is very clear, or have you forgotten?"

It was never an easy 'good bye'. Hughes should have realized that when he'd refused that half bottle of whiskey before bed. This would have been infinitely easier if he were still a little drunk.

"Okay, Roy," he said, picking up his light bag and making his way towards his platform. The alchemist waited a full ten seconds before following.

Neither man spoke until the conductor stopped the ticketless lieutenant colonel with an outstretched arm. Pocket watch still in hand, Mustang flashed it and pushed the conductor's arm out of the way. He followed Hughes listlessly while the man sought out his carriage.

The whistle blew again and the last few passengers on the platform mounted the train. One lady in first class sobbed and flew inside like the lead actress in a badly written opera. Her lover blew her a kiss. Hughes plucked his Mustang's hand from his side and gave it a squeeze. He did not embrace him in their usual manner.

"I'll call tomorrow morning from work," said the inspector. There was no spoken reply, just a slow nod. "And I'll send you those cigars Armstrong brought me. Gracia doesn't want me smoking anymore. Hates the smell. So do I, if I'm honest. Though they're very good, Roy. Fine smokes." The train shunted and Hughes stumbled against the doorframe, cursing. He waved haughtily at the conductor who tapped his watch in response. Rolling his eyes, Hughes reached down and tapped Mustang's arm. "So long, Roy."

The train leapt once more then began rolling forwards slowly. With a valiant attempted at a smile, Hughes saluted Mustang.

Perhaps suddenly aware that Hughes was really leaving now, Mustang trotted after the train for a few steps before stopping. "Am I lost, Hughes?" he asked.

If his friend heard, he didn't answer. He pulled his long frame inside the door and closed it gently, like a father leaving the room of a sleeping child.

Mustang watched the train until it curled out of the station and disappeared from view. He fingered the cold weight of his pocket watch. He opened it and checked the time. Walking back towards the entrance, he considered calling Hawkeye for an early breakfast, though he'd never asked her before. The answer would certainly be 'yes'. Perhaps that's why he chose not too. He only knew the one place that was open at this hour, and they knew his order by heart.


End file.
